The Maelstrom's Cup
by transemacabre
Summary: In a 2006 that never was, Tyler Black encounters Jon Moxley in Puerto Rico. Ambrollins. Dean Ambrose and Seth Rollins before they were Seth and Dean. SLASH. Adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

**THE MAELSTROM'S CUP**

_Another Ambrollins tale, set in an alternate 2006. Actually, as they're Tyler Black and Jon Moxley in this fic, its not properly an Ambrollins fic, but there's no real portmanteau pairing name (Blaxley? Tyon?), so lets go with Ambrollins, shall we? Also, as always, all characters herein are intended to be FICTIONAL and are not identical to the real wrestlers portraying them and have no bearing on their real lives/personalities. Capiche?_

_Chapter 2 is on its way!_

* * *

In the days and nights afterward, in the years inbetween their parting and meeting again, the memory lingered. It did not wear away, like colors faded in the sunlight. They went out of each other's lives, like a candle being blown out, a vanishing of the light, the afterimage left on the eye when the warmth itself is gone.

Tyler Black shouldered his duffel bag and stepped from the overly airconditioned airport out into the noonday heat. Hair plastered to his forehead as he waved down a cab. "Where to?" asked the cabbie as he slid into the backseat. Tyler looked up into the cabbie's eyes reflected in the rearview mirror and answered in his best Spanish. It did not escape him that lines appeared around the cabbie's eyes as they looked back, as though the man was smiling at him; the tone of his voice when he said "Okay, no problem" (in English) made it plain that he was amused by Tyler's efforts.

Tyler stared out the window as they drove into San Juan proper, only halfway paying attention to anything he saw. He really hoped that Bushwhacker Luke knew what he was talking about. Tyler hadn't been able to understand half of what the man had told him over the phone, but true to his word he'd sent Tyler a plane ticket to the island so it seemed worthwhile to check out what IWA Puerto Rico had to offer. He'd felt good about it, in the days before boarding the plane. Tyler knew he looked good, and his ring work left nothing to be desired. It seemed like half the guys who did a stint in PR got snapped up by WWE as soon as they got back.

The cab turned down a dusty side street, slowing to a crawl as they looked for the right address. The sun blazed overheard, and the sidewalks lay empty. No one wanted to be out in this heat. Up ahead, one lone figure came into focus, walking towards them, brazenly, almost in the middle of the street. The cabbie cursed and honked his horn at the guy. As they drew closer, Tyler saw that he was a young man, sunstruck hair almost bronze in color, wearing a worn wifebeater and ripped jeans. Some Puerto Ricans were that fair, but something about the guy told Tyler that he wasn't a local, anymore than Tyler himself was. _Maybe he's another wrestler_, Tyler thought, checking out his arms and shoulders. The cab crawled by, barely finding enough room to pass him, the guy seemingly daring them to run him over. He stared right into the cab's window at Tyler, and Tyler got a brief flash of blue eyes as they drove past him.

A minute later, the cab pulled up in front of IWA Puerto Rico's headquarters. Tyler paid and grabbed his duffel from the cab. He knocked, and the door was wrenched open by an older man with a dragon tattoo on his forearm, cursing at him loudly in a Kiwi accent.

"G'ddamnit Mox - oh, you! Who's this then?" The older man ogled Tyler.

"I'm Tyler Black." Tyler squared his shoulders and offered his hand to shake. "You must be Bushwhacker Luke."

"Yeah." An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Tyler's hand went unshaken.

"You sent me a plane ticket. You said you wanted to see me." Tyler desperately hoped that Luke hadn't forgotten about the whole thing and made him come all this way for nothing. It seemed horribly possible.

"Oh. Oh! I thought ye was someone else. G'damn, come in, come in." Luke waved him in, still having not touched his hand. Blinking, Tyler stepped into what appeared to be Luke's office. Small, overheated, with one fan propped up in the window valiantly doing all it could, the room was taken up by a desk topped with paperwork and a couple of folding chairs with dents in them that looked suspiciously like they might've resulted from contact with a human skull. A huge photograph of Luke and his former tag team partner graced the opposite wall, both of them snarling and flipping off the camera. Luke was excitedly talking to him, but he was no more intelligible in person than he'd been on the phone. Tyler got the gist though - Luke wanted him to come to a couple shows, try it out, and if all went well he would stay in San Juan and work for IWA Puerto Rico. "Yer a prime bloke I see, ye'll do well enough, eh?" Luke asked him.

"Uh, sure," said Tyler. This seemed to please Luke, who threw an arm around his shoulder and led him out of the office. Tyler followed him around to the side of the building, where he found a rickety set of stairs that led up to an apartment on the second floor of the building. As they climbed up the stairs, Tyler saw that a man was sitting on the balcony outside, smoking a cigarette.

"Mike, Mike!" Luke indicated Tyler, who tried to smile at the other man. "S'Tyler Black, just got here, he did."

Stubbing out his cigarette, Mike said, "Mikael Judas. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." Finally Tyler got that handshake. To his shock, Luke took off back down the stairs, leaving him there. At the look on Tyler's face, Mikael shrugged his shoulders.

"You can stay here if you want. Luke'll want you to see the show tomorrow night." Nodding at Tyler's duffel bag, Mikael asked, "Is that all you got?"

"Yeah. Do you all live here?" Tyler asked. The apartment didn't look very big. He wondered how many guys lived in there together.

Mikael popped open the window and climbed through into the apartment, as cool as he could be. "Front door doesn't work," he told Tyler. Reluctantly, Tyler climbed in after him. Inside, the apartment was as small as he'd feared. There was a beat-up couch, a television and a stack of video games, and an empty pizza box on the floor. There was what looked like a small kitchenette off to one side, and two closed doors. "This is the company apartment," Mikael explained to him. "You can leave your bag on the couch. I figure it's yours for now." He opened one door, revealing a bathroom, and then the other door, revealing a bedroom with two mattresses on the floor. "That's where Mox and I sleep."

"Mox?"

"Another worker. You'll see him soon enough." Mikael went into the kitchen and got two beers out of the fridge. Tyler accepted one gratefully. "It's just me and Mox right now," Mikael went on. "Some of the other guys have their own places, or live with girlfriends. You know, the usual." He took a deep drink of his beer and gave Tyler a curious look. "You look real young, kid."

Tyler tried to play it off. "I'm old enough."

"Yeah, I guess so. This your first time away from home?"

"No." Which wasn't strictly a lie. Tyler had stayed in hotels across the midwest while wrestling, and had gone on a senior trip to France once. There was no way he was letting on how inexperienced he was to this guy. Mikael seemed cool enough but he'd only met him fifteen minutes ago. "I've been around, uh, here and there."

Mikael didn't say anything, just took another drink of his beer, but he seemed to smirk a little to himself first. They finished their beers, then Mikael took him back outside to point out the gym across the street. They walked down a few blocks to a little bodega to pick up something to eat. The sun hung low in the sky, and people started coming out on the street. A pretty girl walked past them and blew a kiss to Mikael, who blew a kiss back, making her giggle. On their way back from the bodega, they passed a group of really hard-looking guys hanging out around a liquor store. "Stop fuckin' staring at them," Mikael hissed at Tyler. Tyler jerked his head to look at Mikael so quickly that a pain twinged in his neck.

"Are those guys-" Tyler trailed off. He was a little nervous to put into words what he was thinking.

"Yeah. You're a real fuckin' hick, ain't ya?" Mikael chuckled to himself. "Around here, you mind your own business. Don't stare at those guys. Don't draw attention to yourself."

"Okay." Tyler hung his head a little. They made it back to the apartment without incident, climbed through the window, and ate their dinner. Tyler stuck his leftovers in the fridge and called his family to let them know he was okay. There was no show tonight, so and Mikael hung out and played video games for a couple hours. There was still no sign of the 'Mox' guy Mikael lived with.

Mikael was in the shower when the window suddenly wrenched open, nearly making Tyler jump out of his skin. "Oh fuck -" he started to say. A face peered through the window at him, and Tyler recognized him as the same fair-haired guy from earlier that day. The guy slipped gracefully through the window, perching on the little ledge on the inside and staring him down. His mouth twisted in an ugly way.

"Where the fuck is Mike?"

Tyler pointed vaguely in the direction of the bathroom. "He's taking a shower."

"Why are you here?"

"I'm Tyler Black. I came to wrestle-"

"Well, I didn't think Mike picked you up in a bar and brought you home to fuck him." The guy barked out a harsh laugh. Tyler didn't know whether to laugh along or if the joke was on him somehow. The guy eyed him up and down. "Nah, Mike couldn't land someone who looked like you."

"Hey, fuck you, Mox." That was Mikael, who'd just emerged from the shower. He was wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. He slapped the Mox guy on the back and nodded to Tyler. "Tyler Black, meet Jon Moxley. Jon, meet Tyler."

"Yeah, whatever." Moxley stomped off towards the kitchenette, yanking off his belt as he went like he was improvising a weapon. Up close, he was bigger than Tyler had first assumed, a few inches over six feet. He reappeared a moment later, holding a beer. "Move over," he told Tyler, sitting down next to him on the couch. Mikael went into the bedroom, probably to change. Tyler tried to give Moxley enough room on the couch, but somehow the whole side of his body was crushed up against Moxley. He couldn't help but check the guy out. He guessed Moxley was about his age, a bit taller and broader than Tyler. His shoulders were a little sunburnt. Moxley took a swig of his beer, sat it down hard on the floor in front of him, and turned his body towards Tyler, crowding him even more. Tyler felt as though he was being pushed against the arm of the couch.

"Tyler, huh?" said Moxley in a tone that suggested that he didn't expect a response. "You won't last the week."

For the first time since he'd gotten to Puerto Rico, Tyler was pissed off. Where did this guy get off, talking shit like that? "Hey, I'm a damn good wrestler," Tyler told him, the pride in his voice shining through. "I ran my territory back home, and this isn't the only offer I've had. Every veteran I've gotten in the ring with has come out a believer." He glared at Moxley. "I'll get in the ring with you, and you'll believe, too."

Moxley braced an elbow against the back of the couch, moving in even closer to Tyler. His hot breath touched Tyler's neck as he spoke. "You could probably do backflips and shooting star presses all around me in that ring," Moxley said. "I don't doubt it. But you're too clean and too pretty and too..." His eyes flickered down to Tyler's mouth. "You speak too softly. You won't last here. These people don't want to see headlocks and that technical shit. This is the law of the jungle. Blunt force trauma. Who can get hit the hardest." He glanced down. Without even realizing it, Tyler had planted a hand in the center of Moxley's chest, as though to hold him back from getting any closer. To his surprise, Moxley didn't swat at his hand or say anything about. He just leaned back a little, grabbed his beer off the floor, and took another deep drink. They sat there a minute, each watching the other. Moxley barely blinked; he reminded Tyler of a snake or something. Finally, he stood up and took off to the bedroom that he and Mikael shared. Pausing in the doorway, Moxley had one final parting shot.

"Whatever Luke promised you, it doesn't mean anything. Trust me. I know." With that, he slammed the door behind him and left Tyler there alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**THE MAELSTROM'S CUP**

* * *

Tyler jerked awake the next morning, awoken by the sound of Moxley stumbling around the kitchenette, cursing under his breath. Sitting up on the couch, Tyler rubbed at his eyes and blearily checked his watch. The time was barely 6 AM. Moxley's cursing grew louder; whatever had him pissed this early in the morning had him _really_ pissed. It was stifling hot in the apartment, so Tyler peeled off the t-shirt he'd slept in and left it on the couch.

He walked into the kitchenette to find all the cabinet doors hanging open while Jon Moxley dug in the fridge. Slamming the door to the fridge shut, Moxley turned to face him, and did a doubletake at the sight of Tyler's bare torso. He tried to play it off like it was nothing, but Tyler could see through his pretended indifference. Tyler's lips quirked a bit. "What's going on?" he asked as casually as he could manage.

Moxley huffed, blowing a few strands of hair away from his face. Just past dawn, and the heat was so oppressive that their hair was already sticking to them. "There's not a goddamn thing in this apartment to eat!" He kicked at one of the cabinet doors, making it slam against the wall loudly. Tyler flinched at the noise.

Before Moxley could start tearing the kitchenette apart in a rage, Tyler said, "There's a bag in the fridge with some of my dinner in it. Do you want it?"

"It's yours, you eat it," said Moxley miserably. He stuck his bottom lip out in what could only be called a pout. It made him look almost cute.

"It's okay, we'll share it." Tyler opened the fridge himself and took the bag out. There wasn't a microwave in this place, so they'd have to eat it cold, but that wouldn't be so terrible. Moxley glared at him balefully from beneath his fringe of wild hair that was falling in his eyes. His eyes were bright and suspicious. Sighing, Tyler grabbed two plates from one of the cabinets and divided his leftovers - a sandwich, side salad, and serving of rice - for the two of them. He slid one plate down the countertop closer to Moxley, and then took a big bite of his half of the sandwich. Moxley eyed him, then the plate. Tyler, absurdly, felt like he was trying to coax a wild animal to eat from his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Moxley snatched up the plate Tyler had fixed for him and began wolfing down the sandwich. He ate like a wild animal, too; keeping his eyes on Tyler, as though expecting to have to fight him for his food. Tyler wondered what had happened to Moxley to make him that way.

Tyler dug around in the drawers until he found some plastic spoons and forks for the salad and rice. He set a spoon and fork on the countertop next to Moxley, so that he could take it at his leisure. They finished their breakfast in silence. Moxley then snatched Tyler's plate and utensils out of his hands and slammed them into the sink. Turning on the water, he began scrubbing the dirty dishes like a madman. Tyler almost yelled at him, but something told him not to; this seemed to be Moxley's way of repaying him for the food.

Instead, Tyler went to take a quick shower. When he came back out, Moxley was gone but Mikael was up. "Ah, that's just Mox," Mikael said when Tyler asked about him. "He comes and goes. You wanna head to the gym?"

They worked out, grabbed some lunch, and afterwards Mikael had some vague errand to run, leaving Tyler by himself. He decided to get out and explore the city a bit. He walked a few blocks to the bus stop and caught a bus to Viejo San Juan and spent most of the day strolling the old streets, taking pictures, and enjoying the bright sun and ocean breezes. By the time he got back to their neighborhood, it was almost five in the afternoon. IWA Puerto Rico had a show that night at seven and Tyler didn't want to be late. He climbed through the window to find Moxley passed out asleep on the couch, an empty beer bottle laying on the floor next to him. In his sleep, his face was peaceful and he looked very young. Tyler had the realization that Moxley couldn't be any older than himself.

Tyler sat on the arm of the couch and gently shook Moxley by the shoulder. "Wake up..."

"Huh!" Moxley woke up swinging. Tyler was glad that he'd decided to sit on the arm of the couch. If he'd been standing over Moxley, he would've gotten clocked in the jaw for sure. "What the fuck are you doing, waking me up?" growled Moxley.

"It's six thirty. We have a show in thirty minutes."

"No,_ I_ have a show in thirty minutes. You're there to watch me at work." Moxley sat up, grabbed the beer bottle off the floor, and flung it at the wall when he realized that it was empty. "Fuck that, I need a drink."

From outside, they could hear a car horn going. "_Mox! Black! Get your butts down here_!" Mikael yelled up at them.

Tyler grabbed his duffel with his ring gear in it, while Moxley reluctantly emerged from the kitchenette, beer in hand. Tyler wondered if he'd eaten anything all day other than the half-a-sandwich Tyler had given him that morning. The car horn beeped furiously. Tyler took off out the window and jumped into the waiting car. Luke was driving, with Mikael riding shotgun. Luke ranted at Moxley. "Fuckin' late again, that fuckwit. I should have 'is head for this."

Moxley appeared a minute later, sliding in the back seat next to Tyler, so cool he might've had ice water in his veins. He had his beer, a backpack, and was wearing a pair of sunglasses (even though the sun was setting). "Let's go," said Moxley, kicking at the back of Luke's seat.

"Oh, thanks yer highness! Fuckin'..." Luke grumbled under his breath. Moxley ignored him, stretching out his arms and legs in the backseat, so that once again he was all over Tyler Black. Fifteen minutes later, they parked outside a small gym on a very dark street in a very dark section of town. Pounding music could be heard inside the gym. The four tumbled out of the car and went inside through the employee entrance. Most of the other wresters were already backstage. Luke introduced Tyler to half a dozen guys, all so quickly and in such a heavy accent that Tyler was no more sure of their names than he'd been before they were introduced. Tyler stood off to one side, trying to watch the show, get a feel for the crowd. The first couple of matches went well enough, but there didn't seem to be much rhyme or reason to anything that happened. So far as Tyler could tell, little had been arranged beforehand; the guys just went out and wrestled. It was so chaotic that Tyler wasn't all that surprised when Luke came running up to him partway through the third match and said, "Tyler, get yer ring gear on! We need ya out there. Mox, ye'll wrestle Tyler, eh?"

Moxley, who had moved from his beer to a cigarette, blew a smoke ring at Tyler. "I'll wrestle him," he said, locking eyes with his would-be opponent. "You think you can handle me, pretty boy? You think you got what it takes?"

Tyler narrowed his eyes. Back home, he'd taken on bigger and stronger than Moxley on an almost weekly basis. "I can take anything you can throw at me," he said.

Flicking his cigarette butt at Tyler, Moxley stalked past him into the lockeroom, rasping out as he went, "In your dreams."

Dressing quickly, Tyler Black made his entrance and took the mic. He introduced himself to the crowd in Spanish to a confused and lukewarm response; he was clearly Hispanic, but his accent marked him as a non-native speaker. Some cheered him for his good looks, while others booed him for the same. No one seemed to know whether to get behind him or not. Tyler slid into the ring, eager to put his skills to work and show them what he had to offer. He was also, if he was being honest, excited to wrestle Moxley. He wanted to see whether 'Mox' had anything to work with.

Jon Moxley got on the mic, and what came out of his mouth had the crowd on fire. "You know, I never found a place as dirty as I am until I came to this filthy fucking island!" he snarled. The crowd roared. Looking out at their faces, their bulging eyes, the spittle flying from their mouths, Tyler could believe they'd have Moxley's head on a stick if not for security. There were some guys back home who knew how to rile up the fans. Insult the local sports teams, talk shit about the unattractive women, whatever it took to get cheap heat. But there was something genuine in Moxley's voice; you really believed that he despised this island and every person on it. He was blowing kisses at the crowd and then flipping birds at them. A couple people lunged at him and had to be shoved back. Moxley got in the ring with Tyler and began circling him like a predator going in for the kill. He lunged at Tyler just as the bell rang.

They locked up, then Moxley got his arms around him, hugging Tyler to him so tightly that the breath was squeezed from Tyler's lungs. He broke away and gave Moxley a slap to the face, and was shocked when Moxley tackled him. The crowd screamed enthusiastically. It seemed that what Moxley had told him last night was true; they wanted to see brutality, bodies crashing into one another, fists to faces, not the high-flying moves and technical locks Tyler was known for. Tyler switched tactics, using his speed and flexibility to send Moxley crashing this way and that way. Not used to someone fast enough to counter his moves, Moxley was becoming frustrated. He got his hands on Tyler and _clawed_ him like an animal. A rush of heat and anger overtook Tyler. He kicked Moxley in the jaw, then pounced on him, unleashing his own nails to give Moxley a taste of his own medicine. He got a near-fall, but Moxley kicked out. This went on for several more minutes until Moxley rushed him and got lucky; one-two-three and Black was out. Tyler dragged himself to his hands and knees and looked up at Moxley. For a moment, the roar of the crowd died away and the glaring lights in his eyes faded out, and all he saw was Moxley's expression, wild-eyed and panting. He had a hand clasped over his side, where Tyler's nails had scratched him. _Serves you right_, thought Tyler. He still couldn't believe Moxley had clawed him like that. You would think the guy was fighting for his life or something.

Moxley stalked out of the ring, towards the back, snatching a sign from a fan at ringside and ripping it in half as he went. The raw scratches on his side and back stood out like a brand. He didn't seem to care about his victory at all. Tyler followed soon after, half-expecting Moxley to come after him backstage. Nothing happened. They got dressed, watched the last couple matches, and then piled in the car with Mikael and Luke. Luke was more than half-drunk already, and was rambling happily about the show. "So fuckin' good! Ain't he fuckin' good?" he asked Mikael, pointing somewhere near Tyler's general direction. Honestly, Tyler had been hoping for some criticism, some advice, something he could use to make himself better. Luke's drunken ramblings didn't help him much. Next to him, Moxley sat in stony silence, although his legs were splayed out so far that his right knee rested across Tyler's lap. No one said anything about it, so Tyler assumed it was his 'thing'. Instead of returning back to the apartment, they parked at a bar that looked ready to fall in on itself. Luke ordered beers for all of them, and Tyler soon lost the others in the crowd. He wasn't legally old enough to drink (and he wasn't sure, but he doubted Moxley was old enough to drink either) but no one even asked for ID. He got a beer and took small sips from it. Mikael Judas found a girl he knew from somewhere and told Tyler, "Hey, don't wait up for me. I'm going home with Conchetta tonight."

Tyler didn't really care one way or another what Mikael got up to with Conchetta, but he was concerned at how shit-faced Luke became. Luke swayed on his bar stool, too drunk to even _sit_ straight. He couldn't find Moxley anywhere, so Tyler decided to take Luke home himself. "C'mon Luke," he said, throwing one of the older man's arms over his shoulder. "Let's go, I'm taking you home. Damn, you smell like an whorehouse bathroom."

Luke tried to protest, but he was so drunk that he couldn't make sense. Tyler dug through his pockets and found Luke's wallet and keys. He threw some money on the bar to pay for the drinks, then carried Luke out to the car and tossed him in the backseat. He wasn't sure where Luke lived, and Luke was too out of it to give directions, so he just took him back to the office. Fortunately, one of Luke's keys opened the office door, and Luke passed out sitting upright in one of his chairs. Not ideal, but he'd live, so Tyler decided to go back and see if he could find Moxley.

He drove back to the bar down the dark streets. Some of the street lights were broken or flickering, so Tyler drove slowly, watching the road to make sure no one darted out in front of him. His lights illuminated a figure up ahead. The figure was male, and the way he held himself, the way he walked... Tyler knew immediately that he was Jon Moxley. He pulled up alongside Moxley and rolled down the window. "Hey, going my way?"

Moxley turned and glared at him, and Tyler was shocked to see a purple bruise around Moxley's eye. He knew that hadn't happened during their match. "What the hell happened to you?" Tyler asked him.

"What the hell does it look like?" Moxley took a drag from his cigarette. "I got punched in the fucking face over a girl I didn't even _want_. And was anyone there to back me up? Do you think someone stood up for me and had my back? Hell no. You were gone. Mikael was gone. Luke was gone. I had to get the hell out of there on my own."

Now Tyler felt like shit. "I'm sorry. I was taking Luke home before he crashed and killed someone. Please, get in the car."

Moxley flipped him off.

Tyler sighed. "Please. C'mon, Jon. Let me drive you home. We'll put some ice on your eye."

Moxley stopped in his tracks. Tyler had to hit the brakes to keep from driving past him. Moxley's shoulders hunched, and Tyler got the impression he was fighting with himself over what he wanted to do. Finally, he stormed around to the other side of the car and got in. "I don't want to go back there yet," he told Tyler. "Keep going straight and then take the next right."

"Where are we going?" Tyler asked. He was a little afraid Moxley was leading him to a dark alley to beat his brains in.

"You'll see." Moxley held his beer bottle to his eye.

They drove a little way to a coastal road. It was now very early in the morning, and the pitch black was giving way to wispy shades of grey at the horizon. After awhile, Tyler tried to get Moxley to talk to him. "What brought you to IWA Puerto Rico?" he asked.

Moxley whipped his head around to him, the look in his eyes almost betrayed. Tyler wondered what he had said wrong. "What do you think?" he spat. "I chased my broken dreams right here, to this dead end fucking island. That's how I ended up here."

"This isn't a dead end," Tyler protested, referring to both the island and IWA Puerto Rico. Lots of guys got scouted right out of Puerto Rico. To a boy from Iowa, the island itself was beautiful - blue skies, the deep and mysterious ocean - maybe he just hadn't seen much of the world, but it seemed to Tyler Black that a guy could do a lot worse.

* * *

Puerto Rico was the first _real_ money Jon Moxley had ever made, in or out of wrestling. He'd gotten there with nothing, and four months later, he still had little to show for it, but by Moxley's standards he was a fucking rock star. He had a roof over his head, meals, a gym across the street, and all the chicks, booze, and somas he could handle. He fucked the girls on his mattress on the floor and got wasted and fucked up almost nightly with Mikael, and if he was hollow inside when he woke up in the morning, it wasn't like he'd ever known anything else.

He was a dirty fucking guy in a dirty fucking industry, and that's how he knew Tyler Black was going to wash out of IWA Puerto Rico. Black was, like, beautiful. You weren't supposed to call other guys beautiful, but Moxley couldn't think of a word that captured what Black had going for him. He was beautiful the way girls were beautiful. Clean. He smelled good. He wasn't covered in barbwire scars. Tyler Black was going to leave this slum, get signed to a real contract and get put on TV so everyone could look at him.

"Back in Cincinnati, I came from the gutter, as low down as you can possibly get," Moxley said. "No one cares about me except for me. No one ever fought my battles for me. That's what the streets taught me." He grimaced. "But I can hit hard and I can take hits. And when you're a dirty fucking screwup with those particular skills, the only place for you is here, in the gutter where you belong." Fuck, and no one would ever let him forget it, would they? No, Jon Moxley wasn't allowed to forget for one second, _not for one second_, that he was trash, born to trash, and to the gutter he would go. He couldn't forget, not when someone like Tyler Black could walk into his life with his perfect smile and perfect moves and hammer the point home with his mere existence. "So they pay me, and they feed me, and I have to be grateful for even _that_."

Tyler Black seemed to think over what he'd said. "Maybe you came from nothing, Jon, but that doesn't make you a screwup. You're making money, living in a beautiful island paradise. A lot of guys would kill to be in your shoes." Tyler said, as they pulled over on the shoulder of the road, overlooking the sea. The rising sun stained the sky vibrant colors.

Dean snorted. "Island paradise. Yeah, right. This whole island is just one big crackden. Slums and sluts and dealers." He flicked his cigarette butt out the window. "You see something in this place, something beautiful about it. I don't fucking know what."

Tyler killed the engine, took off his seatbelt, and leaned back. Moxley thought he was looking out at the ocean, but when he glanced over at him, Tyler's eyes were fixed on him. Their gazes met and held. "You keep calling me by my first name," Moxley said. His voice was softer than he'd meant for it to be. He'd meant to sound annoyed. Remind Black that they weren't friends and to stop taking liberties. But he wasn't angry, not really; he liked the way Black said his name.

"You can call me by mine, if you'd like," Black told him. He shifted a little closer, as though Moxley was going to whisper it into his ear. Instead, Moxley sat his beer on the floorboard and reached out, grasping Black by his collar. Black inhaled, steeling himself for a fight. Jon leaned forward, brushing lips over Tyler's, just close enough to feel his warmth, not quite a proper kiss. Unbelievably, Tyler's mouth sought his, touching Jon's lips so gently. Asking for permission. His heart leaped in his chest. Jon shoved Tyler back, then yanked the car door open and jumped out. He couldn't breathe. Tyler called out his name, and Jon was dimly aware of the car door slamming as Tyler ran after him. He ran down the shoulder of the road, into the brush, towards the ocean. He didn't know what he was going to do - maybe throw himself in there. He stopped short, and Tyler stopped as well, hanging back a few feet, giving him some room.

Moxley forced himself to laugh, spinning on his heels. "_What do you want from me_? Huh?" He kicked some sand at Tyler. "You wanna play games, is that it? Well, keep playing. Go ahead, Tyler, keep playing with me! You wanna see what will happen?" He smacked his palm against the side of his head. "You wanna see how crazy Mox is? Keep playing."

"I'm not playing with you," Tyler said. Fuck him, he sounded so sincere. He held out his hand. "Jon, please take my hand. Take my hand, and let's go back to the car."

Moxley looked out into the ocean. The waves rolled ashore, smoothing down the sand at his feet. The ocean was merciless and unfathomable. He could live without mercy. He'd never known anything else. He looked back at Tyler. The hand was still there. The offer was still there. Hesitantly, Jon reached out to him. Tyler's hand gently curled around his own, not clinging to him, not pulling at him. Jon stepped towards him, and somehow, his other arm circled Tyler's torso. He panted wildly. How could this guy do this to him? Tyler led him back up the slope to the car. They climbed in the backseat instead of getting back in the front. Now, it was Tyler's turn to wrap his arm around Jon, hold him close. Tyler's nose rested next to Jon's ear, so that Jon could feel _and_ hear him breathing. His own breathing began evening out. Tyler dropped his head just enough to lay a kiss against Jon's neck. Actual shivers ran up and down Jon's body. He wanted to bite Tyler's lips off. He wanted to turn him inside out, fuck him raw, ruin his beauty so that no one else could ever enjoy it ever again. Instead, he shifted just enough that their mouths could meet again, with a little more force. Tyler's taste flooded his mouth. Whining into the kiss, Jon caught a handful of Tyler's hair, pulling him closer. The crashing waves murmured to them. One of Jon's hands lay on Tyler's chest, right over his heart, feeling the crazed beating all at odds with Tyler's slow, deliberate moves.

They lay down across the backseat, wiggling out of their pants. Fortunately, the place Jon had guided them to was fairly out of the way, and this early in the morning no one was on the road yet. Tyler dripped kisses into his mouth as Jon moved against him, thrusting into Tyler's hands, striving towards completion. Tyler's own hardness, poking into Jon's thigh, felt incredible. This was better than any high Jon had ever had. He threw his head back, crying out. Tyler's hands steadied him as he thrust against Jon, and the both of them came in their own underwear. Tyler shook with the force of his orgasm. His eyes were wide open, dark and unfocused. "Fuck," moaned Jon, letting his head loll back against the seat. "Fuck, Tyler."


	3. Chapter 3

**THE MAELSTROM'S CUP**

* * *

Tyler sank down onto Moxley and they lay like that for some time. Now that the glow of sex was wearing off, Tyler could feel the aches from their match, the scratches Jon had inflicted on him, and the tiredness catching up to him. He hadn't slept in almost 24 hours. He knew they should probably talk about what had just happened between them, but he couldn't think of anything to say, and he had a feeling that saying anything would just ruin the moment. Jon's hand rested in his hair, not exactly stroking him, but touching him much more gently than Tyler had anticipated. He rested his head in the curve of Jon's shoulder and closed his eyes.

A rapping on the car door awoke the pair. Grunting, Tyler sat up and forced his heavy eyelids to open. A police officer was standing outside the car, holding a nightstick in one hand, almost radiating disapproval in his stance. Tyler flushed; it must be obvious what they had been up to. They were asleep in the backseat of Luke's car, their clothes half-undone, one atop the other. "Uh, what's his goddamn problem?" Jon grumbled from beneath him.

"Let me do the talking," Tyler said, before apologizing to the officer in Spanish. The officer gestured for them to step out of the vehicle. Tyler hurridly buttoned up his blue jeans and brushed his hair out with his fingers, but Jon pointedly made no effort to make himself presentable. They shuffled out of the car blinking into the bright mid-morning sun.

"What? Never seen two guys sleeping together before or what?" Jon asked. Tyler prayed the cop didn't understand English.

Stony-faced, the officer demanded to see their ID. Tyler showed him his driver's license and explained that he had been driving. Satisfied that they weren't drunk, the cop waved them off with a stern warning not to let him catch them doing anything like that again. "Fuck that guy," said Jon as he climbed back in Luke's car, slamming the passenger-side door with too much force. "The way he looked at us, you'd think he'd caught us fucking in the backseat."

Tyler put the car into drive. "We got lucky that he didn't actually see anything," he said, thinking back to their earlier activities. He glanced over at Jon, who stared out the window and refused to look his way. So the moment was gone.

They arrived at the office a few minutes later. Jon went to get their gear out of the backseat while Tyler opened the office and checked on Luke. He was right where Tyler had left him a few hours before, sleeping upright in his chair, head tipped back, snoring loudly. Tyler had to shake him several times to wake him up. "I'm up, I'm up," Luke mumbled, rubbing his red eyes. "Wha' the hell yeh want?"

"You should go home, Luke," Tyler told him, pressing his keys in his hand. Luke stared at them, uncomprehending. Tyler did not feel like having a conversation about last night with Luke, either, so he went out to help Jon move the gear. Luke shuffled out behind him and went to get in his car. As Jon and Tyler started up the stairs to the apartment, they could hear Luke yelling, "Wha's this then! Wha's that smell!" The two sprinted up the stairs to the balcony, slung the gear into the apartment, and barely made it inside before bursting into laughter. Jon collapsed to his hands and knees he was laughing so hard. Tyler leaned against the wall, holding his sides, watching him. Jon had a nice smile, he realized. Right now he didn't look like snarling Moxley with the hair-trigger temper from last night. He looked younger, closer to his real age.

Jon swayed to his feet, coming to lean against the wall near Tyler. After a minute, their laughter died down, and the place fell silent. There was no sign of Mikael. Jon looked at him; the bruise around his eye had faded to a pale purple. Tyler swallowed. He was trying to find the right thing to say when, to his surprise, Jon spoke first. "The things I wanna do to you..." Jon's eyes slid shut, his hand curling into a fist. He bit his lower lip, as though lost in fantasy.

"Yeah," agreed Tyler. "But you and me both can barely stand on our feet." Tyler's arms and legs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds each. The quick nap in the car hadn't done much to revive him. And he'd seen how bloodshot Jon's eyes were. Jon was just as exhausted as he was.

Jon pushed himself off the wall with such force that Tyler involuntarily flinched, almost expecting Jon to slap him or something. "Okay, get some sleep," Jon told him. He paused in the doorway of his room, then spun around and pointed at Tyler. "But this _thing_ between us, it's not over." He shook his head. "It's not over by a long shot." He turned and disappeared into his room, shutting Tyler out.

Tyler collapsed on the couch, deciding to forgo a shower for the time being. It seemed like he'd barely fallen asleep when he woke again, this time to the unnerving sight of Jon Moxley sitting on the arm of the couch, staring down at him with his piercing blue eyes. Sitting up, Tyler rubbed at his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Five in the afternoon. We slept the day away." Jon didn't sound like he cared at all. "Mikael's not home yet. I wanna fuck you at least once before he gets back."

"Are you always like this?" Tyler asked him.

"You started this between us," Jon reminded him. He stood up and began pacing back and forth before the couch. "I could've left this thing between us alone. But you wouldn't let me. _You_ came after _me_. There's no going back now. I'm going to have your mouth and your hands and your body, and you're gonna give it all up to me. Got it?" The look in his eyes was wild. It took Tyler's breath away. Moxley really was like an animal, ruled by passions and hunger, fighting for everything. Fighting against everyone.

Tyler rose to his feet. "You're talking like you're gonna top. I don't remember making any deals about that with you." He couldn't help but laugh at the look on Jon's face. "I'll tell you what - let's wrestle for it. Whoever scores a threecount or submission, tops." He watched a thousand emotions cross Jon's face - Jon was intrigued by the deal but wary. Like he thought Tyler was trying to pull something on him. Tyler had no plans to back out of this. He'd had just a taste of Jon in the car earlier that morning. He wanted more, much more.

"Deal." Jon stalked towards the bedroom, spinning around on his heel after a moment. "You coming or not?"

Jon and Mikael's bedroom was small, hot, and mostly bare. Aside from the two mattresses, there was a small end table piled with miscellaneous items, and a couple boxes on the floor. There was a large, open window, covered by a sheer piece of fabric nailed to the windowframe as a makeshift curtain, leading to a small balcony outside. The doorframe was somewhat busted; someone had kicked the door open at some point, leaving it unable to lock. If Mikael came home, he could walk in on them. The thought sent a thrill down Tyler's spine. Tyler was surprised that the cleaner of the two mattresses turned out to belong to Jon, and felt shitty for assuming otherwise. Jon pushed the mattresses back a little, leaving enough open space for them to wrestle. They stared each other down.

"On my mark, get set -" Tyler said, only for Jon to spring at him. Catching Tyler off guard, Jon slung him to the floor, his hands scrabbling to lock in a submission hold. Tyler nimbly countered, using Jon's own weight against him. Without the ring, he couldn't use any of his high-flying moves, but he had more than enough tricks up his sleeve. They locked up, Jon using his bulk to push Tyler back. The fight quickly went to the ground. Tyler almost had a hold locked in, getting ready to make Jon tap out, when Jon suddenly flipped him over, end over end, holding his legs and pinning him to the floor.

"One, two, three," counted Jon. He sat up, grasped Tyler by the hair, and drug him up to eye level. "I win." He smirked wickedly. Tightening his grip on Tyler's hair, Jon reached down with his other hand and palmed Tyler through his shorts, feeling how hard he was already. "Unless... you wanted to lose. Is that it? Do you want to get fucked?"

Panting, Tyler arched into Jon's touch. He needed _more_ - more stimulation, more friction, more everything. He thought Jon would kiss him, but instead Jon caught and held him under the chin and licked a stripe from the corner of Tyler's mouth almost to his ear. Tyler jerked in his grip, freaking out a little at how _weird_ it was, and Jon growled low in his throat. The rumble made Tyler shake, but not from fear. Jon bit down on the shell of Tyler's ear, delicately, just hard enough to send a jolt of pain racing down Tyler's spine.

Jon released his head, only to put the heel of his hand to the back of Tyler's neck, and shoved him onto the mattress. Tyler rolled onto his back, only for Jon to straddle him, weighing him down, and begin working at Tyler's jeans. Their eyes locked, and as every button gave way, the look in Jon's eyes seemed to get more and more wicked. Reaching up, Tyler unbuckled Jon's belt for him, enjoying the feel of the old leather in his hands, the _hiss_ as the belt slid free of Jon's jeans. Every one of Tyler's senses felt heightened. His hand brushed against the bulge in Jon's jeans, liking the little hitch in Jon's breath as he applied some pressure. In a single, fluid movement, Jon lept off him, grasping the hem of Tyler's jeans and yanking them off Tyler's body. He flung the jeans aside, and then shed his own. Tyler let out a low whistle at the sight. "Commando? Nice."

Tyler lifted his hips and wiggled out of his own boxers. He didn't really intend for it to be sexy, but the heat in Jon's gaze let him know that the sight was appreciated. Jon dropped to his knees on the edge of the mattress, elbowing Tyler's legs apart so he could get a better look.

"Jesus fuck," said Jon. His gaze raked from Tyler's face, to his lips, then down his chest, lingering over his hard body, to between his legs. His hand brushed along the inside of Tyler's leg, up to his groin. Jon's fingers moved in slow, agonizing, delicious circles right at the edge of his groin. His cock stood ready, laying against his belly. "You're a work of art," Jon said.

Of all things, _that_ made Tyler blush. "Not too bad yourself," Tyler told him, unabashedly taking in the sight of Jon's naked body. Jon was hairier than Tyler, and a trail of fine blond hair led down his body, to the junction of his thighs. He remembered the feeling of Jon's cock in his hand from early that morning. Now Jon's cock looked rock-hard, thick, and ready. Tyler went to reach for it, only for Jon to bat his hand away.

"Not now," Jon said. "I want to fuck your ass." He was so blunt that Tyler was a little taken aback by it. He wondered what would happen if he said 'no' to Jon. He decided not to press his luck.

He tried teasing Jon instead. "Are you gonna do it right? Huh, Moxley?" Tyler bit his bottom lip and raised his eyebrows.

Jon inhaled deeply, and breathed out the words, "I wanna _destroy_ you." He grabbed hold of Tyler, manhandling him into position. Legs spread, ass up, face down. Tyler heard a rustling sound, and the click of a bottle being opened. He prayed for it to be lube. Jon grasped one of his ass cheeks slipped a slick finger between Tyler's cheeks, beginning a slow circling of his hole. Tyler exhaled in relief. Of course Moxley had lube at hand; he seemed like the kind of guy who would. Without warning, the finger slid into him, deep, up to the knuckle. Tyler yelped a little in surprise, earning a slap on the ass.

"Shut up before the neighbors hear you," Jon warned him. He began ruthlessly fucking Tyler's hole, introducing a second and then a third finger. Too fast and too hard. Tyler tried to muffle his whines in the bedsheets. This was much hotter than it had any right to be. He could almost feel how impatient Jon was to fuck him, feel him vibrating behind him, the neediness as his fingers thrust in and out of Tyler. The mattress shifted under Jon's weight. He rose up, placed a knee in the crook of Tyler's leg, pinning him down. He braced himself with his free hand on the small of Tyler's back, forcing his face further into the mattress. Jon's fingers slipped out of Tyler's hole, and Tyler panted, desperately trying not to tense up. Jon lined himself up at Tyler's entrance, muttering low under his breath - things Tyler couldn't hear - things that sounded _filthy_. Like he was chanting to himself. Jon took Tyler by the hips and rammed forward.

Tyler's heart pounded in his ears. Jon was fucking the air right out of him. He wondered for the first time just what he'd gotten himself into. His hands clawed for purchase on the mattress as he tried to press back against Jon's onslaught. The breathy, raspy noises pouring out of Jon's mouth reminded him of the noises Jon made while wrestling - somehow, Tyler got harder at that thought.

* * *

Above Tyler, Jon was in heaven. If he'd idly wondered before if Tyler was a virgin, at least with guys, the thought was laid to rest. Tyler definitely knew his way around a ring and a mattress. Jon wanted to show this pretty boy slut what he was made of, but he was well on his way to an embarassingly quick orgasm. It took all his willpower to pull out of him. Jon wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, trying to hold off. Beneath him, Tyler took the opportunity to reach between his legs and start jacking himself off. Jon leaned back a bit so he could see Tyler's heavy balls swinging between his legs, his hard cock, begging for some attention. He lubed up his cock and then used his slick thumb to tease at Tyler's hole again, caress the pucker, before reaching a little lower and cupping his balls.

"Oh god, oh fuck," whispered Tyler. He began jacking himself off faster.

Jon chuckled darkly. He liked being Tyler's undoing. He wondered if he could get Tyler off just with his cock, fuck him until he was coming his brains out. He'd love to see that. He parted Tyler's ass cheeks again, slipping back inside him and trying a series of hard, slow thrusts. He watched as Tyler's face screwed up, his eyes shut tightly, his lips parted as he tried to breathe through it. Forgetting his impulse to fuck Tyler to completion, Jon reached around and fisted Tyler's cock.

"You like that? My hand on you? My cock in your ass?" He thrust even harder, forcing the air out of Tyler's lungs. With most of Jon's body weight bearing down on him, his cock pounding Tyler's ass, and his hand pumping Tyler's dick, it was a wonder that Tyler hadn't crumpled. He was strong.

"Oh yes, fuck..." Tyler gasped, and his body tensed. "I'm - I'm -" Before he could say any more, he came in Jon's hand, wailing, thrashing his head. Jon kept pumping him, wringing him for what he was worth. Tyler looked more beautiful than ever like this, destroyed, face down in Jon's bed, Jon's cock still pounding his ass as he shook through his orgasm. Seizing Tyler by the hips again, Jon gave him several more punishing thrusts, then dragged his nails all the way down Tyler's back, from the nape of his neck to the crack of his ass, the shout as he orgasmed drowning out Tyler's cry of pain. Finished, Jon pulled out of him, letting Tyler slump onto the bed. He sat back on his heels, sucking in lungfuls of the humid, tropical air. Sweat dripped down Jon's body. Tyler _glistened_, the red scratch marks down his back standing out sharply against his brown skin. Jon hungrily looked him over. No one should look as gorgeous as Tyler did, fucked out, shaking from pleasure and pain.

Tyler wiped his face with the corner of one of Jon's bedsheets. He rolled onto his side, his dark eyes staring up at Jon. "I thought you were gonna kill me," he said softly.

"Did I fuck you right?"

"Yeah." Tyler wiped sweat from his brow. "Yeah, you did. Goddamn. I don't think I've ever had it like that."

Jon got to his feet, looming over the bed. "Don't think I'm finished with you," he told Tyler. "I haven't got half of what I want out of you. Before this is done, I'm gonna destroy you. Ruin you. You'll never get this from anyone else." He widened his eyes. "Believe me."

Tyler tipped his head back against the mattress. "I can't wait."

* * *

They both took showers, seperately. Tyler wasn't sure he was up for round two so quickly. The fresh scratch marks on his back ached in the shower, and his ass and hips felt sore as hell. There had been a moment, right before he came, when he had thought Jon was about to fuck the life out of him. He grunted as he tugged at his own dick under the shower spray. He'd come so hard that the world whited out for a single, blissful second. Such a turn-on thinking that Mikael was going to walk in on them, or that a neighbor might hear or see them out the open window. Tyler was a sense freak, always had been. Nothing was ever enough for him. For the first time, he was unsure if he could handle what he'd gotten himself into, and that made him wildly excited. Whatever this thing was, he wanted to ride it out to the end. He came against the shower wall, then rinsed off and got out. He put on his gym shorts and gingerly walked into the living room to find Jon waiting for him in the kitchenette.

Jon had slicked back his own freshly-washed hair. While Tyler was in the shower, he'd left and brought back a plastic bag filled with colorful fruit. "I, uh, didn't know what you'd want," Jon told him. "So I just bought some of everything." The bag was filled with bananas, papaya, passionfruit, mangoes, and a few others Tyler didn't recognize. He took out a passionfruit and sliced it open, scooping out a mouthful of the juicy seeds. He smiled up at Jon gratefully.

Jon reached up to brush a drop of juice from Tyler's lip. He sucked the drop off his fingertip, then took out one of the larger green fruits and peeled it. "They call this a corazon here," Jon said. "I don't think there's a word for it in English. Anyway, its my favorite." He bit into the flesh of the corazon, his eyes closing in rapture. "I love it. The only good thing about this fucking hellhole is the fruit. Something is always in season."

Tyler caught his hand by the wrist, pulling Jon in a little closer. Jon's eyes slid open, and the wariness was back. Did this guy ever relax? Tyler guessed not. He smiled his most disarming smile and leaned in, planting a kiss on Jon's lips. He pulled back, sucking his own bottom lip into his mouth. "Delicious," said Tyler appreciatively.


	4. Chapter 4

**THE MAELSTROM'S CUP**

* * *

The the sound of laughter floated up the creaky stairs into the ramshackle apartment over the IWA Puerto Rico headquarters. Booming laughter, recognizable as Mikael Judas, followed by a woman's higher-pitched, tinkling laughter. Mikael was back, and he'd brought female company. Jon and Tyler wiped at their faces, sticky with the juices of exotic fruits, before ambling into the living room.

Mikael had already climbed through the window and was helping his female companion through; no easy feat considering the high-heels she wore. Finally, she fell into his arms, giggling as Mikael tried to set her upright. "Hey, guys," Mikael said, twirling the girl in an imitation of a salsa move. "This is Connie, she'll be staying over tonight."

"Hi," said Connie, barely even glancing at Jon or Tyler. Her attention was entirely focused on Mikael. Jon glared holes in their backs as Mikael led her to the bedroom. He and Mike brought over girls all the time, but they never spent the night. Judging from the size of the overnight bag this Connie chick wore over her arm, she might be planning to move in the fucking place.

"Fuck," muttered Jon, pulling out a cigarette and climbing through the living room window, out onto the balcony. The balcony overlooking the street was warped, sagging in the middle, and the paint had long since been blasted off by the tropical storms and the sun. But he hadn't put a foot through it yet, so as far as Jon was concerned it was safe to stand on. He leaned against the railing, took a long drag off the cigarette, and listened to the song of the _coqui_ frogs. The restlessness was in him again; everything agitated him, and that was not a good thing for anyone who happened to be in the vicinity of Jon Moxley. He watched the glowing core of his cigarette as it burned down towards his fingers. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to fight or fuck. He needed to get that restlessness out, and if he had his way, he'd drag Tyler back into the bedroom and fuck him again, fuck him so that Jon's sheets smelled like Tyler's cum and sweat. Mike was probably balls deep in that slut he'd brought home, so that idea was out.

The window squeaked as it opened behind him, and Jon didn't need to turn around to know that Tyler was coming out to join him. He felt like he could recognize Tyler from the rhythm of his breathing. Tyler set a cold beer on the wooden railing in front of him. Surprised, Jon looked up at him. Tyler was staring off into the evening, his cloud of dark hair framing his face. "Thanks," mumbled Jon, as he reached up to take the beer. Their fingers brushed; it was ridiculous that such a simple touch could make his heartbeat speed up, when he'd been coming in the guy's ass not an hour ago.

"So," said Tyler, as he came to lean against the railing next to him. Jon tensed up. This was it, time for the awkward, 'I've known you for 48 hours and we jacked each other off and had a skanky hookup on your mattress on the floor' talk. He couldn't believe it when Tyler went on and said, "Still think I won't last the week?"

Jon coughed, trying to play it off like it was the cigarette's fault. "This place, it eats people alive. Your skills, your youth, your heart... doesn't matter here. The truth is a sledgehammer to the face, ain't it? Whatever your vice is, Puerto Rico will bring out the worst in you. Sex, booze, blow. It'll swallow you up. Promises mean nothing to these people. And in the end, you'll just be another anonymous face. Another warm body." He flicked his dying cigarette over the edge of the railing.

Tyler's gorgeous mouth curved in a smile. "I intend to leave a hell of a mark, Jon."

Despite himself, Jon kind of liked that Tyler was such an arrogant asshole. He hadn't thought at first that he'd be so fearless. Tyler set off down the steps. "Where you going?" Jon called after him.

Tyler paused when he reached the street. He looked back up at Jon, and the last dying rays of the setting sun caught his face and illuminated him. He glowed as if from within. "Someone told me the piña colada was invented here. I'm gonna go find one. You wanna come with me?" Without waiting for an answer, Tyler started backing away, edging out of Jon's line of sight. Like he just _knew_ that Jon would come after him.

"God fucking _damn_ it!" Jon grabbed his beer and ran down the stairs.

* * *

Tyler didn't know where he was going; he just picked a direction and went where his gut told him to go. Jon followed him, silent so far. Tyler glanced back at him from time to time, like Orpheus making sure Eurydice was following him out of hell. They descended down uneven steps, past little cinder-block houses and apartment buildings painted red, yellow, blue, colors no one in Iowa would ever paint their house. Bars on the doors and windows, bars on the patios, giving the impression that the houses were birdcages. Music drifted up to greet them, and they rounded a corner to find a small block party: locals dancing in the street, men banging away on drums, girls twirling, everyone laughing and hooting and waving their hands in the air. A young woman with a wild afro ran over and took Tyler by the hand, pulling him in to dance.

Tyler looked behind him to see Jon hanging back, leaning against a chain-link fence at the other end of the alley. He watched Tyler through that fringe of hair, fingering his cigarette. Tyler twirled the girl, cheered her on as she shook her ass, but stood back and let another man dance off with her. He paused to speak to an older man who was minding the drink cooler, and gratefully accepted a pair of cups from him. He pushed his way through the crowd towards Jon, smiling ear to ear.

Jon didn't want to look at him. "You were having fun, go dance," he said, trying to wave away the cup Tyler offered to him. He viciously stubbed out his cigarette against a fence post.

"See that guy over there?" Tyler nodded towards the older man he'd been talking with. "This is his party. His son got into the Marines, and they're celebrating. And he was nice enough to fix a couple of americanos like us real Puerto Rican piña coladas." He raised his eyebrows at Jon. "Are you gonna break that old man's heart and turn down his piña colada?"

"Gimme that," said Jon, taking one of the cups from him.

"Great," laughed Tyler. "I thought I was gonna have to drink both of them. I'd probably get so smashed you'd have to carry me home."

Jon peered at him from over the rim of the cup. "I could carry you."

"You wouldn't leave my drunk ass passed out on the street?"

"Your pretty ass wouldn't last ten minutes out here on the streets," Jon told him. He licked his lips. They finished their drinks and then Tyler coaxed Jon into joining the party. The locals didn't speak much English, but the drums were so loud that it didn't matter. Neither Jon nor Tyler really knew anything about salsa, but a couple of the girls helped them through a few steps. Tyler's partner boldly caressed his abdomen and chest, before somehow turning the grope into a dance move by grabbing his hand and getting him to spin her like a top. Someone cut in on them, and the crush of people pushed Tyler into the core of the party. Large hands linked around his waist, and he turned to find himself in Jon Moxley's arms. In the middle of the crowd, they were pushed so close together that no one else noticed. They couldn't talk, but Tyler could feel Jon's breath brush his face, the warmth of his hands on his body, and he imagined that he could feel Jon's pulse beating in time with the drums. They danced together for only a few seconds until the song ended and they had to break apart. Something twisted inside Tyler's chest. He desperately wanted to know what Jon tasted like right now... if he kissed him, would he taste like the piña colada? He didn't dare do something like that. Not here, not now.

He led Jon over to the old man and they thanked him for letting them join in his party. They went back the way they'd came, stumbling a little on the uneven pavement. Tyler had always had a good sense of direction, and they made it back to their apartment without incident. Instead of heading up, Jon sat down on the bottom step, seemingly amused by Tyler's frustration.

"C'mon, Jon, what is your problem? We have work tomorrow, we need some sleep."

"Yeah, about that." Jon's voice was raspy and pitchy, and his accent seemed stronger. He was a bit drunk for sure. "Don't think this means I'll go easy on you in the ring. Never gonna happen."

Tyler loomed over him, resting a hand on Jon's head and putting just enough pressure into it to make Jon's head tip back. "I will never ask you to go easy on me. I want everything you've got."

Jon pushed back, climbing to his feet. He grabbed Tyler by the hair and pulled him closer. "You think you can handle me. You all think you can handle me." He shook his head. "You don't know what you're playing with. I'll burn you alive. Consume you. Is that what you want? Total destruction? Think about it, Tyler." He pulled Tyler further into the shadows and kissed him, biting at his lips. Tyler moaned, overcome with sensation. He felt like Jon might fuck him right there on the stairs, in full view of anyone who might walk by, and if he did, Tyler didn't think he could stop him. Instead, Jon shoved him away, then took off up the stairs. Tyler followed after him, a little unsteady on his feet. Jon was so abrupt, unpredictable, like he might lose control of his body at any moment. Tyler wasn't sure from one moment to the next if Jon wanted to fuck or fight or run from him.

He climbed in through the window to find Jon standing in the doorway of his bedroom. All was silent; Mikael and Conchetta must be asleep. The headlights from passing cars threw strange shadows across the walls. For a split second, Tyler could see Jon's face; he looked like a man at war with himself. Finally, Jon disappeared into the bedroom. Tyler threw himself on the couch and prayed for morning.


	5. Chapter 5

**THE MAELSTROM'S CUP**

* * *

Tyler awoke to the sound of a radio playing and dishes clinking in the kitchenette. He crawled off the couch and peered into the kitchenette to find Conchetta, wearing one of Mikael's t-shirts and a pair of his boxer shorts, dancing to the Beatles while flipping an omelet. A small radio had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and was perched on the windowsill over the sink. "Good morning, handsome," she told him, giving him a wink. "Hungry?"

Tyler wasn't in a position to turn down free food. While Conchetta mixed peppers and eggs for his omelet, Mikael joined them, kissing her shoulder as he walked up behind her.

"Where's Moxley?" Tyler asked Mikael.

"Him? He took off at the asscrack of dawn." Mikael yawned, scratching his chest.

"Did he say where he was going? Do you think he's at the gym?"

"Kid, I don't know. Maybe. He could be at the gym, the bar, in some back alley somewhere. I told you, Mox does this a lot." Mikael shrugged. "He always shows up in time for the show. And if he doesn't, Luke'll fire his ass and send him back to wherever he's from."

Conchetta finished the omelets, and handed plates to both men. There wasn't a table in the kitchenette, so they all ate standing up. Tyler poked at his eggs, feeling uneasy about Jon's disappearance. The omelet was pretty good, but it was tasteless to him. He shouldn't care so much about what Jon was going through, whatever his major malfunction was - they'd hooked up a couple of times, but that didn't mean anything. And yet, Tyler couldn't shake this uneasy feeling. He finished the breakfast, thanked Conchetta, and washed his plate. He felt gross and sticky, and decided to jump in the shower. The scratches Jon had dealt him night-before-last still burned a little when the soap touched them; the ache between his legs was sweeter. It was hard to reconcile spitting, scratching Moxley with the same Jon who had held him so gently, unseen in the crowd, for a few heartbeats in the dusk. Tyler rested his forehead against the cool shower tile, wishing he could get Jon Moxley off his mind.

Afterward, Tyler went down to Luke's office and made some phone calls. He checked in with his parents, his old promoter back in Iowa, and then a couple of his friends.

Even over the crackly phone connection, he could hear the wistful sigh in Jimmy Jacobs' voice. "Tyler, I'm in love."

Tyler smiled. Jimmy with his emo hair and his fuzzy boots and his hopeless romantic streak. "Does she love you back yet?"

"Not yet, but I know she loves me, Tyler, I _know_ she does, she just hasn't admitted it yet!" Jimmy rhapsodized over Lacey's beauty, her grace, her in-ring skills, until he got tongue-tied. Tyler was glad they were on the phone so he could roll his eyes all he wanted. Jimmy would fall in unrequited love all the time, always for girls that were taken or out of his league, but Lacey was taking this to new heights. Tyler had met her a couple times back when Jimmy was trying to get him into Ring of Honor, and he'd thought she was a bitch. Maybe she _had_ to be a bitch, to make it in ROH, but even so, her and Jimmy would be like mating a hawk to a dove.

"I wish you were here, pal. I still can't believe ROH didn't offer you a contract."

Tyler chewed his bottom lip. _We don't have anything for you. You're good, kid. Maybe in a few years_. When his tryouts for ROH didn't go anywhere, he'd jumped on Bushwhacker Luke's offer. "I'm doing good in Puerto Rico. I mean, tonight will be my second show. I'm getting my face out there, meeting the other guys, working on my Spanglish..."

Jimmy laughed. "Drinking cocktails on the beach, with a honey on your arm. What about you, any summer flings in paradise yet?"

"Well..." Tyler felt his face go hot. "I met someone my first night here."

"What! You work fast, bro!"

"Yeah, but I'm not sure where it's going. Listen, I'll email you later."

"Okay, but remember: Sex On The Beach isn't just a cocktail! Good luck!"

* * *

Tyler went to the gym, got lunch, and did some quick grocery shopping to fill the bare shelves at the apartment. Five o'clock rolled around, and no sign of Jon Moxley. Then six, and six thirty, and still no Moxley. There was nothing to do but get dressed to wrestle. Showtime approached, and they had to leave. Tyler scribbled down the address of the gym they were going to wrestle at and stuck it on the front door for Moxley. He didn't know what else to do - none of them had cell phones and Mikael and Luke seemed disinterested in Jon's whereabouts. With a heavy heart, Tyler grabbed his duffel and headed downstairs to the waiting car. Tyler spent the ride to the venue wondering where Jon was, if he was okay, if he was planning to no-show, and if so, if would get fired for it. He couldn't explain why, but he didn't want to see Jon go. It wasn't that he'd miss the sex - Tyler never wanted for willing lovers - but the thought of Puerto Rico without Jon Moxley, infuriating and wild and needy Jon Moxley, seemed hollow and dulled out, leached of color.

An hour into the show, Moxley came swaggering through the back door into the locker room like he owned the place, tossed down his backpack and began dressing to wrestle, as though nothing was wrong. Tyler, who'd been waiting for his chance to perform, gaped at him for a moment before he was shoved aside by Bushwhacker Luke, who stormed over to Moxley and began cussing him out. It was hard to make out exactly what he was saying, but Tyler guessed Luke was disrespecting Moxley's work ethic, his ethnic heritage, and probably his preference in beers.

Moxley looked like absolute hell. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, the shiner he'd gotten the other night at the bar had turned a sickly green color, and there were new rips in his jeans. Tyler almost demanded to know what had happened to him.

Jon pursed his lips, not answering back to Luke but clearly not giving him his full attention. His eyes slid over to Tyler from time to time, holding his gaze in that unblinking, eerily snake-like way of his. Tyler's heart began beating like mad. When Luke spoke to him, Tyler jumped a bit like he'd been shocked.

"Black! I want yeh to work over this sorry sonavabitch in th' ring! I know yeh can, by God, kick his fuckin' arse for me!" That being said, Luke stomped past him, not even giving Tyler a chance to reply. Jon lowered his chin a bit; his hair fell into his eyes, and he stepped forward into Tyler's space, so close that he could bite or kiss him, not caring if the other wrestlers were watching.

"You gonna do as Luke says, Tyler?" Jon's voice rumbled, a sound at once threatening and seductive. Tyler's heart pounded so hard that he imagined Jon could hear it. "You gonna _kick my ass_?" Jon's mouth fell open a little, giving Tyler a glimpse of his tongue. "I've pinned you twice and I've only known you for three days." His mouth quirked into an amused smirk at the way Tyler flushed, a little taken aback by Jon's allusion to their sexual escapades, the wrestling match they'd had in private to decide who topped.

Tyler forced himself to stand up to Jon. "When I'm done with you, you won't be able to walk straight."

Moxley looked him up and down. "Promises, promises," he said, before turning away and slowly taking off his shirt, giving Tyler a view of his beautiful back. Tyler shook himself a little, trying to get his head in the game. He was confident that he could take Moxley, but only if his mind was on wrestling, and not on sex. They were the last match that night; Tyler came out to the same tepid response as last time, but Moxley just stalked out, not even getting on the mic, just climbing in the ring and hanging on the ropes, cupping a hand to his ear to listen to the jeers of the crowd. When the bell rang, Tyler caught him with a boot to the face when Moxley took his sweet time turning around.

Moxley rolled onto his knees, cradling his lip, and looked up at Tyler with a thunderstruck expression, like he hadn't expected Tyler to hit him like that. _Underestimate me again, Moxley, come on_, thought Tyler. He was angry suddenly; angry at Moxley for underestimating him, angry that he didn't give a damn about his career, angry that he disrespected Luke, Tyler, and the rest of the locker room. Tyler climbed on the ropes and launched himself like a missile in a Springboard Clothesline, sending Moxley crashing to the mat as soon as he'd climbed to his feet. They traded blows, and Moxley backed him into a corner. Tyler let him wear himself out for a few minutes, then kicked his legs out from under him. He danced around Moxley, darting in to land a kick to his back or chest, never letting him get close enough to grapple with him. He thrilled to see frustration set in as Moxley slowed down, sucking in air. He tried to set up a Falling Paroxym, but Moxley got a hold of him, got him into a Midnight Special, slamming down on him hard enough to make Tyler see stars.

Tyler rolled out of the ring for just a moment, just long enough to catch his breath, and then went in after Moxley. He didn't want to give Moxley a chance to get a second wind. He could probably have ended the fight faster, but he wanted to work Moxley over, remind him of his own mortality - remind him that Tyler was faster than him, and a little younger, and fresh and ready to fight tonight. In the end, Tyler dropped him with a Northern Lights Suplex, bridging gracefully to hold Jon's shoulders down. He got a three-count. "Hear that, Jon?" Tyler whispered into Moxley's ear. "That's me, beating you. The last time we wrestled,_ I wanted to lose_."

Afterwards, they hit the showers and then joined the others. Once again, everyone wanted to go out drinking. There were a couple bars down the street, and most of the wrestlers followed Mikael and Luke into the bigger, better-lit establishment. Moxley, who was back in his ripped jeans, hung back. He looked so forlorn, so beaten up and bitter at the world, standing there under a streetlight in the parking lot, that Tyler sighed and walked over to him. "Get a beer with me," he told Moxley.

Moxley glowered at him.

"C'mon," said Tyler, nudging his shoulder. He looked around to make sure no one was listening. "Think of it as our first date."

At that, Jon snorted and rolled his eyes, but walked with Tyler down the street to the shittier-looking of the two bars nonetheless. The bar was dim, smelled of smoke, and the bartender gave them a dirty look when they walked in. Tyler kind of liked that; he knew they looked like trouble, two big built guys, Jon in his ripped jeans, looking like a total bad boy, and Tyler with his long hair and leather jacket. A group of guys were hanging out around a pool table, talking shit and feeling up their girlfriends. Tyler noticed a couple of the girls eyeing him and Jon with interest, and grinned back at them.

At the bar, Jon ordered beers for both of them and immediately gulped down half of his. Tyler sat beside him, resting his forearms on the bar, and turned to him. "Mind telling me why you were an hour fucking late for the show?"

"Mind backing off my fucking dick?" Jon leaned back, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, staring Tyler down through half-lidded eyes.

Tyler clenched his jaw. "So you don't care that you could've gotten fired tonight? Screwed up your whole career?"

Jon snickered. "_Career_? What career, Tyler? I have nothing. I came from nothing and I am nothing. Sooner you get that through that pretty head of yours, the happier you'll be."

"You can't really believe that," Tyler said to him.

Jon gave him a disbelieving look.

"No, I'm serious," said Tyler. "Every other thing out of your mouth is how much of a screwup you are. And yeah, you screw up. But the guy I was in the ring with an hour ago, he put up a real fucking fight. I kicked his ass all over that ring and he kept getting back up. I'm not just good, Jon. I'm not just some mediocre wrestler getting by because I make the girls wet. I am future legend material. And you beat me clean the first time we faced off. You've got this thing inside you - some kind of monster. It can devour you, or it can make you stronger." He tapped Jon on the chest. "Choose wisely. Do you want to be a legend? Or do you want to get left by the wayside?"

"'Ey!" That voice belonged to some guy across the bar, a Puerto Rican holding a pool stick like a melee weapon. "Cut out that faggot shit," he yelled at them.

Tyler blinked at him uncomprehendingly. He couldn't believe the guy had just spoken to them like that. A pretty girl grabbed hold of the guy's arm, saying, "Raul, stop it, leave them alone, Raul..." but he just shook her off. Raul took a couple steps towards Tyler and Jon.

That's when Tyler decided, _fuck it_. He grabbed Jon by the sleeve, fully intending to walk out of the bar and leave their half-finished beers on the counter. Raul or whatever his name was just wasn't worth it.

"You fucking _maricon_, don't walk away when I'm talking to you!"

Tyler bristled. He knew what a deadly insult _maricon_ was in Latin America, but he wasn't sure what to do. Raul wanted him to retaliate, but that would only escalate the situation. On the other hand, if he ignored the insult, that might make him look weak, and that would be even worse. He didn't have a chance to decide what to do before Jon Moxley blazed past him and punched the guy in the jaw with a wild haymaker.

The two went crashing to the floor. Instantly, three other guys pounced on top of them; Tyler didn't know if they were friends of this Raul guy, or if they were trying to break it up, but he wasn't about to let them pile on Jon. He flung himself at the nearest guy, catching him off-guard and sending him sprawling. Another tried to rush him, but Tyler side-stepped him, and then caught him in the ass with a kick as he careened by. The third guy tried to get smart and came at him with a chair. Tyler braced his shoulders and upper back against the bar, then reared up and kicked the chair right in the seat as it came flying at him. He'd intended to kick it back into the guy's face, but his foot went right through the cheap seat and connected with his assailant's nose. The guy collapsed, clutching his nose and moaning. Tyler hopped on one leg, trying to pry the remains of the chair off his foot. Jon and Raul were still on the floor, punches flying like mad, snarling and spitting in each other's faces. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you," Jon screamed with every punch to Raul's kisser. Tyler pulled the chair off his foot and flung it at one of the assailants who was trying to get to his feet.

The bartender was screaming at them, and Tyler didn't want to know what he was reaching for behind the counter, so he reached down and dragged Jon off Raul. Jon kicked Raul in the nose as Tyler lifted him into the air and began carrying him out of the bar. Once outside, Jon's feet touched the ground, and he and Tyler were off like a shot. They could hear sirens down the street. They jumped a fence and ran down a dark alley, then over another fence and through a parking lot. They kept going until their lungs burned. They stopped running when they reached another dark, deserted alley behind an abandoned factory, Jon collapsing to his knees and coughing. The sirens were far in the distance. Tyler sank against the crumbling brick wall. "I think you really fucked that Raul guy up," he gasped out to Jon.

"He deserved it!" spat Jon, when he was able to talk. "Anybody who calls you a faggot gets his teeth knocked down his throat!"

"I _am_ a faggot," said Tyler bluntly. He hated the word, but in a sick sort of way, he wanted to throw it in Jon's face, see what he would do. Jon slowly rose to his feet from his crouch, took two long steps towards him, grasped Tyler by his shirt collar, and slammed him up against the wall. Fear coiled in Tyler's stomach, and he readied himself for another brawl. But then Jon's mouth descended on his, capturing Tyler's lips in a heated kiss.

"You fucking gorgeous asshole," Jon gasped out between kisses. He pulled back, bracing his hands on either side of Tyler's face, and stared at him. The whites of his eyes were incredibly white, and even in the darkness his pale eyes gleamed. The hairs on the back of Tyler's neck stood on end. Being the focal point of Jon Moxley's intensity was as unnerving as hell. "You have no idea who or what I am," Jon told him. "Nothing in my life - not in my whole _goddamned_ life - has been special or sacred. But I'm not gonna wait around to be handed the things I deserve." His voice dropped so low that he hit vocal fry; he growled. "_I'm taking all of it_."

About two or three feet away from them was what had once been a factory window, now bricked over, but still with a crumbling concrete ledge. Tyler glanced over at it, and Jon's eyes followed his. Jon jerked him towards that ledge, pushed him up onto it, and then dropped to his knees, hurridly undoing Tyler's jeans and belt. Tyler scrambled for a handhold on the narrow window ledge. Jon got his jeans around his ankles, then leaned forward and pushed his face into Tyler's crotch. Tyler inhaled, catching his breath, looking around anxiously. The alley was deserted. If anyone were to happen by, he and Jon were as good as dead. There was no mistaking what was taking place between them. Heedless of the danger, of the gravel digging into his knees, Jon mouthed at him through his underwear. Finally bracing himself with one hand, Tyler reached down with the other and helped Jon free his cock. Jon sucked his cockhead into his mouth; Tyler gasped out loud at the sight. He'd never seen anything so dirty as Jon's lips lavishing the head of his cock with attention, his tongue eagerly lapping up his precum. He wound his fingers into Jon's curls, loving the exquisite contrast of the softness of Jon's hair and the heat of his mouth, the gentle scrape of his teeth making Tyler hiss with pleasure.

If someone came across them like this, Tyler decided he could die happy. This was pure bliss. He tipped his head back, feeling his balls tighten as he neared his release. Jon's mouth popped off his cock, and before Tyler could look to see what had happened, Jon pressed himself against him, rubbing their cocks together, his powerful hands working both Tyler and himself. Jon bent his head and licked at the hollow of Tyler's throat, where sweat droplets had run down his neck and pooled there. "Oh fuck yes, like that," said Tyler as Jon's hand jerked him _just right_, and he came, shooting onto Jon's belly, with Jon following him soon after. They slumped against one another, Tyler's ass barely on that ledge, and Jon barely on his feet.

Jon rubbed the back of Tyler's neck, his fingers brushing across skin that would, one day, be marred by a nasty scar from botched stitches. Reluctantly, Tyler stood up and tugged up his underwear and jeans. Jon let him buckle his jeans, then pressed him against the wall again, his hot breath in Tyler's ear as he whispered, "Special, sacred..." and kissed Tyler's throat.


	6. Chapter 6

**THE MAELSTROM'S CUP**

* * *

_Author's Note: I want to thank everyone who has reviewed and favorited this story from the bottom of my heart! Y'all are all rock stars. I would like to ask that you keep the reviews and feedback coming, as they help keep me motivated._

* * *

They made it back to the apartment on foot in remarkably little time - Tyler's sense of the direction led them home. They crept in as quietly as they could. Jon stuck his head in the bedroom door; in the darkness he could just make out two shapes sharing Mikael's mattress, and the soft sound of Conchetta and Mikael's breathing. He turned in the doorway, trying to focus his eyes, make out Tyler's outlight in the dim light, imagining that he could see Tyler's eyes shining. Taking a deep breath, Jon said, "Fuck it. You wanna take a shower with me?"

"Yeah," breathed out Tyler. He grabbed his duffel bag, dug out a towel and the gym shorts he liked to sleep in, before joining Jon in the bathroom. They locked the door and began undressing, leaving their sweaty shirts on the floor and letting their jeans pool around their ankles. Tyler got in the shower and turned on the water; Jon stood back for a few moments, soaking in the sight of Tyler, naked, standing under the spray, soaping himself up. Water and frothy soap poured down his body, clinging to Tyler's muscles, down the line of his spine. Jon had to shake himself a little bit before he could join him in the shower.

Tyler wordlessly handed him the bottle of shampoo. Jon stuck his head into the spray, then jumped when he felt Tyler's hands catch him around the waist. He leaned his head back, flicking water droplets out of his eyes, and let the back of his head rest in the curve of Tyler's shoulder and neck. Tyler murmured nonsense things as he brushed his lips to Jon's skin. His hands wandered across Jon's torso, discovering him. A finger trailed down the faint line of hair that led from Jon's navel down to his crotch. Jon felt something brush his ass - Tyler was hard. His heart pounded. He jerked away, forcing Tyler's hands off him, and climbed out of the shower.

Tyler stood in the shower for a moment, hands up, clearly surprised by Jon's reaction. He seemed to decide, _Okay, whatever_, and quietly turned off the water and stepped out. Jon was roughly toweling himself off, making sure to keep his eyes downward at his feet. "What was that for?" asked Tyler.

Jon went still, cutting his eyes at Tyler maliciously. At that, Tyler sighed, sending a puff of air upwards to blow strands of inky-dark hair out of his eyes. "Fine, be that way. If you decide to act like a fuckin' grown-up and not a bratty asshole, you know where to find me, okay?" He put on his gym shorts and left the bathroom, not even bothering to towel off. Jon waited til he was gone, then kicked viciously at the toilet, hissing under his breath. He was lucky he didn't break his foot with that stunt, but too pissed to care. He had Tyler's taste in his mouth, Tyler's _cum _in his stomach. That wasn't enough for him? Tyler wanted his ass, too? But under his righteous fury, buried deep within, Jon knew that Tyler had never demanded anything from him - not yet - and his anger burned out quickly. He headed to his bedroom, purposefully not looking to see Tyler asleep on the couch. He threw himself on his mattress, trying to ignore the sound of Mike and Conchetta's steady breathing. He got a couple of hours of sleep, woke up just after dawn, and decided to leave before anyone else woke up.

On his way out, Jon couldn't help himself. He stopped and looked over Tyler in his sleep. Tyler slept with one arm thrown over his face, blocking out the sun; his skin gleamed with sweat. Jon's fingers brushed, feather-light, across Tyler's forehead, ghosting down between his eyebrows to the tip of his nose. _Damn you,_ thought Jon. _Why didn't you quit and go home. Why didn't you turn away from me. Why didn't you make this easy. _His fingers touched the dimple between Tyler's lips, and Jon's hair almost stood on end when Tyler sucked Jon's fingers into his mouth. His eyes didn't open; you wouldn't know he was awake at all but for his tongue and lips lavishing attention on the sensitive pads of Jon's fingers. Jon pulled his hand back hastily, and Tyler sighed deeply and seemed to return to sleep. There was a faint hint of a smirk on his face. Jon was too shaken to be mad - Tyler had surprised him again. In moments, Jon was out the window, taking off down the street.

He went to the gym and worked out until he felt like puking. He walked to a bodega, bought a water and a sandwich, then went to the pharmacy. The pharmacists were always happy to sell under-the-counter, for the right price. Jon took a couple of pills, but didn't feel much better; actually, they made him more tired. It was now after noon, so he grudgingly headed back to Luke's office, planning to take a nap on the cool tile floor.

Of all people, Tyler Black was waiting for him in Luke's office, sitting at Luke's desk and typing away on Luke's computer. Jon stood in a doorway for a minute, torn between just walking in like he owned the place and turning tail and running away like a pussy. Tyler glanced up at him and said, "Hey, come take a look at this," so Jon decided, what the hell. He pulled up a chair and sat next to Tyler.

"What the fuck are you showing me?" Jon rasped, rubbing at his tired eyes.

"Ring of Honor," Tyler said, giving him a look. "You seriously have never heard of it?"

"Of course I've heard of ROH. I just didn't recognize any of these nobodies." Jon grimaced at the wrestlers in the video Tyler was playing.

"They're not nobodies," Tyler told him. "These guys are some of the best up-and-coming wrestlers in the world. Austin Aries, CM Punk, Samoa Joe, Bryan Danielson... future legends."

"Whatever," said Jon. "If its so incredible, how come you're here and not in ROH, huh?"

Tyler stilled. Jon looked over at him to see the set of Tyler's jaw, the way he seemed to be thinking over what he wanted to say. "I will be there," Tyler said. "I mean, I was going to be there. It didn't work out. But after I'm done here, I'm going to ROH next. See this guy?" He played a video of a guy wearing purple hair and eyeliner talking to some chick. "He's my best friend, Jimmy. Jimmy Jacobs. He's trying to get me in ROH with him." A warm smile graced his face as he talked about Jimmy. Jon glared at the computer screen. A powerful and irrational distaste for Jimmy Jacobs seized him. One day, he decided, he would track Jimmy Jacobs down, get him in the ring, and beat the hell out of him, and he'd _enjoy _every second of it.

Jon had no way of knowing this, but those thoughts would set him on a collision course with Jimmy Jacobs, a course that would end with Jimmy stabbing him in the testicles with a metal spike until Jon screamed "I quit." But that was several years in the future, a future Jon was half-sure he wouldn't live to see.

Tyler signed into Myspace and showed Jon some photos of himself when he was just starting out - fresh meat. There were photos of Tyler, still babyfaced, with an arm around chubby girls Jon assumed had gone to high school with him or something. There was a photo of Jimmy Jacobs sitting in Tyler's lap that made Jon's pupils narrow to pinpricks and made Jon feel like breaking something. And lastly, photos of Tyler with his family - mom and dad, and a whole pack of sisters that Tyler named in one breath: "MarilenaValerieLuciaRosieAracely." All of them so beautiful, with big smiles, glossy dark hair, and glowing skin that Jon sort of wanted to give Tyler's parents an award for fucking and producing them. "My mom's from Mexico," Tyler told him, showing Jon a picture of a woman who barely looked older than her daughters. "But she moved to the US when she was little. My dad is from Argentina. He's Italian and Spanish and a few other things, and my mom has Aztec blood in her. So I'm a mix. I kinda wish they'd made us speak Spanish more, now that I'm living here. I mean, I speak it, but its like Spanglish, you know?"

Jon's own genealogy was a twisted thing. In 1928 his great-grandmother was working as a maid at the Grand Rapids Hotel, where she met a Jewish member of Capone's Chicago Outfit; they spent a long weekend fucking in his hotel room and shooting at flies on the wall with his revolver. Nine months later, Jon's grandmother was born, and in 1967, during the Summer of Love, she would herself conceive twins, one of them being Jon's mother, after a brief and meaningless affair with a drifter. Jon's mother imagined her father to be like James Dean, pouty-lipped and rebellious, but in Jon's mind this phantom grandfather was an LSD-addled lunatic, a draft-dodger who bequeathed his descendants little more than his pale blue eyes. As for Jon himself, knowing what his mother _did_, he could only assume he was named after what his father _was_.

Jon shook himself out of those thoughts and refocused on what Tyler was typing on the computer. "Are you writing _poetry?__" _Jon asked in a disbelieving tone usually reserved for finding out one's acquaintance dresses up in Pokemon costumes to have sex with like-minded perverts. _  
_

"Yeah," said Tyler, a little defensively. "What, you don't like poetry?"

"It's faggy."

Tyler turned in his chair and stared Jon down. "You've fucked my ass and sucked me off, and you think writing poetry is faggy?"

Now it was Jon's turn to be defensive. "It's not like that. I'm not..."

Tyler gave him a disgusted look. "Not gay? _I am. _Look, I'm not gonna fight with you over this. When you get over yourself, come back to me and we'll talk. Until then, I have nothing to say to you."

Jon jumped up and kicked his chair aside. "What the hell! Fuck!" He started for the door, flinging it open and storming out, yelling "I'm not fucking gay!" in the general direction of a very hungover and very confused Bushwhacker Luke. He didn't know or care where he was heading. He was mad as hell, at Tyler, at himself. He wanted to spit poison. He wanted to beat his fists against something until all the rage and pain faded away and he could think clearly again.


End file.
